Sometimes I suffer from a kind of 'other-headedness' which can throw my work routine and put pay to creativity quicker than a boot up the self-esteem:
'Other-headedness' to me, is the onset of a cloud of 'should'; a feeling that, whatever task I'm performing that I should be doing something else.
When the kids were younger, it was fairly simple; I was with the kids, so felt the urgency of work pressing me, taking away my concentration and, more importantly, my appreciation. When I was painting I would suffer guilt at leaving my chicks too long, or pay the price for leaning on friends and family.
Now I deal with a three-way split- guess I'm so damn good now, I get a promotion? The writing I do, or don't do, bubbles away till I get ill and have to deal with it. Great dollops of prose then need clarified, made palatable for human consumption. Teaching dance needs a regular feed, and that could be as little as a spin or two round the front room, or a session picking apart a flavour combination to see what its component parts are.
The painting is the biggest deal; I suppose I identify with it most closely. It's something I've done for a long, long time and illustrates most vividly my life experience. I serve this craft most, for, when I'm not up to scratch, it just ain't there. I can put on some music and move my muscles, stretch out and feel a little taller; I can spill a ream of angst in ballpoint pen and empty my plate, but the painting? Still a mistress, for the most part, apart from the odd apology, oil-incident, frivilous sketch. It is the least playful area of my life, even though I have come to realise how important playing is. If I hear a voice dismissing 'play' as a child's indulgence, or someone's 'too busy' I know, for a fact, dagnabbit, they need it more than I do.
Don't get me wrong, I am a fortunate, appreciative person and I really don't have a concept of what I would be doing if I wasn't doing this, right now; I just look for what works better and see that if I have been dealt good cards I want to make the most of them, not throw them away simply because I feel someone else isn't getting as a good a deal, or because I feel unworthy.
I posted this because I know this feeling can strike other folk, too and I wanted to communicate my empathy.
St Abb's National Reserve
View from my office
Showing posts with label painter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label painter. Show all posts
Monday, 22 February 2010
Tuesday, 26 January 2010
January
'I am going to play, to experiment. I am going to write...'
The thing that emerged from this seeming raft of failed intentions was that the stuff that really needed doing got started,or finished. Instead of getting myself in a pickle about what really needed to be done first, I drifted. This sounds flaky, I know, but I gravitated towards the priorities and managed a pace that was both fruitful and enjoyable. I am busy, but not frantic.
I have managed one day of creative experimentation, only. This appears to be exactly what I needed in order to put some energy back into my work/life; I am happy just getting on with a current commission.
I suppose my conclusion is,the window I imagined I'd made in order to play, simply allowed for space to be in the moment. The usual engines of deadlines and external expectations are only an anaerobic burst to get over the line. My focus is on now, not next month, or next year.
If I have finally put an end to the painful myth of the suffering artist then I have really achieved something great in my own life. I am so lucky; I paint, I dance, I write. I appreciate and enjoy!
'I am going to play, to experiment. I am going to write...'
The thing that emerged from this seeming raft of failed intentions was that the stuff that really needed doing got started,or finished. Instead of getting myself in a pickle about what really needed to be done first, I drifted. This sounds flaky, I know, but I gravitated towards the priorities and managed a pace that was both fruitful and enjoyable. I am busy, but not frantic.
I have managed one day of creative experimentation, only. This appears to be exactly what I needed in order to put some energy back into my work/life; I am happy just getting on with a current commission.
I suppose my conclusion is,the window I imagined I'd made in order to play, simply allowed for space to be in the moment. The usual engines of deadlines and external expectations are only an anaerobic burst to get over the line. My focus is on now, not next month, or next year.
If I have finally put an end to the painful myth of the suffering artist then I have really achieved something great in my own life. I am so lucky; I paint, I dance, I write. I appreciate and enjoy!
Tuesday, 25 August 2009
Thursday, 16 July 2009
Birds & Beds
The term 'break from work' seems synonymous with piecing together Swedish flat-pack furniture, non? Oui:
All the meant-to jobs got done in a post-paintbrush flop after (on retrospect) quite a busy, non-stop first half; luckily, (or the result of steady training and a regular chomp on an orange segment...do footballers still do that?) I like to think I scored a few goals and perhaps set up a few more. Back to me; upside down under a wrought iron implement of torture- oops, sorry, day-bed, on my mother's sitting room floor. There is a slowly seeping sensation like- like someone left the window a teensy-bit open all night when it wasn't really warm enough and now everything's a bit damp and all the enthusiasm has gone from life...no, I'm not directly blaming my mother, but I should have known...
SHOULD HAVE KNOWN I could not make her life more comfortable; the woman has specialised in her own brand of self-denial and flagellation for years, even the Giant Shed of Domestic Dreams is not going to get Mum to kick back and enjoy life through the flat screen on a 'so-nearly-a-sofa-no-one's-going-to-know' 'This will solve all your problems' sodding 'Yanka' day bed. Or whatever it was called.
It is too large for the room, or was, till we threw all the furniture into the garden, apart from the TV and D.B. (I dare not say its name)
Fine, fine, and there's space to put the clothes airer (mum doesn't do outside- winter, too cold, summer, flies and pollen); fair enough, you cant actually see the telly from the high-seat chair where she usually sits, but, she says she'll manage.
Actually, technically, she can't use the D.B. yet because the mattresses are too soft, and simply eject her from semi-recline position to 'It took me 2 hours to get off the floor' position. Still she's had a lot of fun fretting about it, where it is, what people might think about it (The Furniture Police are in your area) and how much she's put everyone out, which of course, is her biggest worry.
That, and not having enough to worry about.
So, like a giant white elephant (only black, and made of metal, and not an animal at all) the D.B. squats, a memorial to well-intentioned children everywhere; I should have listened to my partner (and may have done, had he proffered the little gem before I began this whole sorry debacle); He said 'You should have bloody known.'
Sage words indeed, as the muscles in my back contort painfully with guilt when Mother announces on the phone she's moved the D.B. plus 2 mattresses 4ft across the floor, to get to the windowsill, and she's well on her way to a speedy recovery- she just needs to have a little lie down. On her bed.
Still, mothers; who'd live- no, can't go there, yet; only, I went out for a run, t'other day, nothing too athletic, I thought, a trot for 1/2 an hour; gets me out of the house an' all that, well I was on the road leading away from the village, just at a point where there's a green belt of trees between the road and the houses; a small burn runs under the road. I saw a bird a-fluttering along the bottom of the wall, clearly in distress. I could not run by, ladies and gentlemen, the clock was running, but I trapped the creature (only adding to its trauma, no doubt) and thought, after seeing it had lost most of the feathers on both wings and its tail, that I would pop it over the wall where it could find a little shelter, in which to die in peace.
I did not reckon on the feisty spirit of this little blue tit, and (it did try to peck me several times) after I deposited it over the wall, it gamely skeetered across the grass and dropped over a steep incline into the burn. Well, I could not run on, knowing this dear little thing had become the victim of a vicious double attack, by predator, then artless human ,so I heaved myself over the wall and followed the bird into the water. It was not deep, in fact, our little hero was clinging to a tiny twig in the centre of the waterway, perhaps 6 inches from the surface, It's little chest heaving with effort. I splashed towards it; it must have thought 'Oh F**k, not you, again.'
It took a while to get back up the sides of the ever-so-steep bank; I was muddied, a livid green streak up the back of my sporty shorts. I searched in vain for a little nook to place our blue tit in.
'Mother' I thought, 'She likes a lost cause.' I negotiated the wall once more and strode on with purpose.
Well, to cut a long story short, the birdy stayed with Mummy till I returned from my exercise, giving my dear old mum a chance to really fret about the dietry requirements of an injured blue tit; by the time I had returned, Ma was on the phone reporting an escape attempt and the little fellow was i her kitchen sink, pooing on the dish cloth.
I took the little champ home, where he upgraded from a teabag box to a shoebox, even survived the night, despite an enthusiastic cuffing from our pet cat. Hemade his final journey as a sought out a lady with a wild animal sanctuary, not far from where I live. She was out so I made my mind up to borrow a cage (I kid you not) from my Mother-in-Law and nurture little bluey till he mended and the bond between us was made good and he flew off, only to return and perch on the windowsill, every spring...aah, okay, took the lid off the box there, folks sorry; no what actually happened was, I took the lid off his box, to transfer him to his new, luxury 2-story wooden apartment and he'd bought the farm.
It is only by the grace of God I have two strong arms with which I can pick up sticks and beat myself around the head with both at once; saves time.
So, time off, yes, lovely, thanks. Back to the studio, phew.
All the meant-to jobs got done in a post-paintbrush flop after (on retrospect) quite a busy, non-stop first half; luckily, (or the result of steady training and a regular chomp on an orange segment...do footballers still do that?) I like to think I scored a few goals and perhaps set up a few more. Back to me; upside down under a wrought iron implement of torture- oops, sorry, day-bed, on my mother's sitting room floor. There is a slowly seeping sensation like- like someone left the window a teensy-bit open all night when it wasn't really warm enough and now everything's a bit damp and all the enthusiasm has gone from life...no, I'm not directly blaming my mother, but I should have known...
SHOULD HAVE KNOWN I could not make her life more comfortable; the woman has specialised in her own brand of self-denial and flagellation for years, even the Giant Shed of Domestic Dreams is not going to get Mum to kick back and enjoy life through the flat screen on a 'so-nearly-a-sofa-no-one's-going-to-know' 'This will solve all your problems' sodding 'Yanka' day bed. Or whatever it was called.
It is too large for the room, or was, till we threw all the furniture into the garden, apart from the TV and D.B. (I dare not say its name)
Fine, fine, and there's space to put the clothes airer (mum doesn't do outside- winter, too cold, summer, flies and pollen); fair enough, you cant actually see the telly from the high-seat chair where she usually sits, but, she says she'll manage.
Actually, technically, she can't use the D.B. yet because the mattresses are too soft, and simply eject her from semi-recline position to 'It took me 2 hours to get off the floor' position. Still she's had a lot of fun fretting about it, where it is, what people might think about it (The Furniture Police are in your area) and how much she's put everyone out, which of course, is her biggest worry.
That, and not having enough to worry about.
So, like a giant white elephant (only black, and made of metal, and not an animal at all) the D.B. squats, a memorial to well-intentioned children everywhere; I should have listened to my partner (and may have done, had he proffered the little gem before I began this whole sorry debacle); He said 'You should have bloody known.'
Sage words indeed, as the muscles in my back contort painfully with guilt when Mother announces on the phone she's moved the D.B. plus 2 mattresses 4ft across the floor, to get to the windowsill, and she's well on her way to a speedy recovery- she just needs to have a little lie down. On her bed.
Still, mothers; who'd live- no, can't go there, yet; only, I went out for a run, t'other day, nothing too athletic, I thought, a trot for 1/2 an hour; gets me out of the house an' all that, well I was on the road leading away from the village, just at a point where there's a green belt of trees between the road and the houses; a small burn runs under the road. I saw a bird a-fluttering along the bottom of the wall, clearly in distress. I could not run by, ladies and gentlemen, the clock was running, but I trapped the creature (only adding to its trauma, no doubt) and thought, after seeing it had lost most of the feathers on both wings and its tail, that I would pop it over the wall where it could find a little shelter, in which to die in peace.
I did not reckon on the feisty spirit of this little blue tit, and (it did try to peck me several times) after I deposited it over the wall, it gamely skeetered across the grass and dropped over a steep incline into the burn. Well, I could not run on, knowing this dear little thing had become the victim of a vicious double attack, by predator, then artless human ,so I heaved myself over the wall and followed the bird into the water. It was not deep, in fact, our little hero was clinging to a tiny twig in the centre of the waterway, perhaps 6 inches from the surface, It's little chest heaving with effort. I splashed towards it; it must have thought 'Oh F**k, not you, again.'
It took a while to get back up the sides of the ever-so-steep bank; I was muddied, a livid green streak up the back of my sporty shorts. I searched in vain for a little nook to place our blue tit in.
'Mother' I thought, 'She likes a lost cause.' I negotiated the wall once more and strode on with purpose.
Well, to cut a long story short, the birdy stayed with Mummy till I returned from my exercise, giving my dear old mum a chance to really fret about the dietry requirements of an injured blue tit; by the time I had returned, Ma was on the phone reporting an escape attempt and the little fellow was i her kitchen sink, pooing on the dish cloth.
I took the little champ home, where he upgraded from a teabag box to a shoebox, even survived the night, despite an enthusiastic cuffing from our pet cat. Hemade his final journey as a sought out a lady with a wild animal sanctuary, not far from where I live. She was out so I made my mind up to borrow a cage (I kid you not) from my Mother-in-Law and nurture little bluey till he mended and the bond between us was made good and he flew off, only to return and perch on the windowsill, every spring...aah, okay, took the lid off the box there, folks sorry; no what actually happened was, I took the lid off his box, to transfer him to his new, luxury 2-story wooden apartment and he'd bought the farm.
It is only by the grace of God I have two strong arms with which I can pick up sticks and beat myself around the head with both at once; saves time.
So, time off, yes, lovely, thanks. Back to the studio, phew.
Monday, 22 June 2009
Well, the postcard is complete, the exhibition on the High St over; time to collect the pictures and get back in the studio. The Seahouses Festival seemed well-attended, well-received and the weather was good for us folk unable to bolt for cover, in the event of a downpour.
Thank you to everyone who stopped to have a friendly word, took an interest in the paintnig, shared their stories and kept me fed and watered. My only regret is not keeping a visitors book handy, which would have been a good record for the festival organisers.
Monday, 25 May 2009
Pre-London art fair 'do I really know what I'm doing?' doubts are banished, no time to worry about that anymore, wrap those piccies, write that 'to-do' list, lose the the 'to-do' list and write it out again...
He says, 'stop worrying'.
Oh, okay, then, ooh, that's better; wish I'd thought of that. I am, apparently, making a big deal out of the driving- coming from a man that needs sat-nav to find which shelf the pepper grinder's on I think it's a bit rich-
Drop in and see me- stand B5 at Untitled Art Fair Chelsea Old Town Hall- there's a preview on Friday, then open Saturday and Sunday- I can email tickets, info, etc. or google 'untitled art fair' and grap some tickets from the front page of the website.
I'm looking forward to the experience, to showing my work to a new audience, to feeling the London buzz, to too many Costa coffees on the way down, and seeing some lovely folk when I'm there.
Meanwhile,
Tuesday, 24 March 2009
Wednesday, 6 February 2008
I added pictures to the blog, this morning, after entertaining the possibility that some readers may like to know about THE WORK.
I'm currently working on a couple of commissions, with a couple pending.
I have, of late, made trips to the coast, to paint en plein air. I was really very self-conscious, about the act of painting, but am finding it much easier now, not to rush the process of making work when I feel I may be under scrutiny- (By seagulls?!)
I especially enjoyed a foray to Bamburgh, in the wild winds in December. The experience, in the end, was all process, as the pictures were adorned with cat paw prints before drying out, unfortunately!
I began sketching outdoors again, last year, in a friend's garden:
My kids are now of an age where they are able to feed themselves, argue effectively against going places with Mother, etc. So, I was able to pack pastels and drive over the hill and sit in the sunshine, surrounded by a horticultural vision.I want exhibit the finished work and sketches sometime, perhaps in a building near the garden (It will be open for The National Gardens Scheme).
I will have some work from the garden to show on the art tour, ( details to follow) in the meantime.
I'm currently working on a couple of commissions, with a couple pending.
I have, of late, made trips to the coast, to paint en plein air. I was really very self-conscious, about the act of painting, but am finding it much easier now, not to rush the process of making work when I feel I may be under scrutiny- (By seagulls?!)
I especially enjoyed a foray to Bamburgh, in the wild winds in December. The experience, in the end, was all process, as the pictures were adorned with cat paw prints before drying out, unfortunately!
I began sketching outdoors again, last year, in a friend's garden:
My kids are now of an age where they are able to feed themselves, argue effectively against going places with Mother, etc. So, I was able to pack pastels and drive over the hill and sit in the sunshine, surrounded by a horticultural vision.I want exhibit the finished work and sketches sometime, perhaps in a building near the garden (It will be open for The National Gardens Scheme).
I will have some work from the garden to show on the art tour, ( details to follow) in the meantime.
Monday, 22 October 2007
First Post
Hello, my name is Sarah; this is my first blog- Okay, not exactly my first; My really, really first was on myspace, and...well, Ididn't enjoy it very much. I don't like to talk about it. Oh, really? Well, okay- I'll tell you:
I set up my own page (lorluvaduck, little old me?) to promote myself as a painter, a dancer, and general all round finger-on-the-pulse networking creative. Without really checking out the 'scene' I joined the tens (hundreds?) of thousands of profilers, who all seemed so profficient at updating, networking...generally being hyperactive in cyberspace.
I agonised for days over a photo, then had to go and have a little lie down, after seeing myself, there, on my little screen, and knowing anyone, ANYONE could go look, and comment...I took my photo off my home page. Baby steps, Sarah.
I was not ready to jostle with the legions of razor-fringed, pouting babes, out there- this was supposed to be a serious attempt to establish my profile as a serious, proffessional painter/teacher of dance. All I seemed to have succeeded in doing, so far, was establish myspace as my untamed monster, fit to air my most groomed hang-ups, rather than promoting my bestest features.
Terri liked me, so did Toni, and Trish. Paul wanted my to listen to his songs, so did 'Bad Blister', or somesuch.
I thanked them all.
Like the party guest in the kitchen, my profile hovers by the crisps, saying 'Hi' to anyone who wanders in, towards the fridge. Folk say 'Hi!' Grab a beer, and go and join the party; which, it seems, (by the flashing, throbbing, disco-strangeness of each profile I'm invited to read,) going on in another room.
Be gentle, dear reader, make comment- I can take literary critisism, but let this myspace refugee in!
I set up my own page (lorluvaduck, little old me?) to promote myself as a painter, a dancer, and general all round finger-on-the-pulse networking creative. Without really checking out the 'scene' I joined the tens (hundreds?) of thousands of profilers, who all seemed so profficient at updating, networking...generally being hyperactive in cyberspace.
I agonised for days over a photo, then had to go and have a little lie down, after seeing myself, there, on my little screen, and knowing anyone, ANYONE could go look, and comment...I took my photo off my home page. Baby steps, Sarah.
I was not ready to jostle with the legions of razor-fringed, pouting babes, out there- this was supposed to be a serious attempt to establish my profile as a serious, proffessional painter/teacher of dance. All I seemed to have succeeded in doing, so far, was establish myspace as my untamed monster, fit to air my most groomed hang-ups, rather than promoting my bestest features.
Terri liked me, so did Toni, and Trish. Paul wanted my to listen to his songs, so did 'Bad Blister', or somesuch.
I thanked them all.
Like the party guest in the kitchen, my profile hovers by the crisps, saying 'Hi' to anyone who wanders in, towards the fridge. Folk say 'Hi!' Grab a beer, and go and join the party; which, it seems, (by the flashing, throbbing, disco-strangeness of each profile I'm invited to read,) going on in another room.
Be gentle, dear reader, make comment- I can take literary critisism, but let this myspace refugee in!
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